


Wildest Dreams

by orphan_account



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Future, Future Fic, Mount Weather, One Shot, Romance, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 22:41:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3428180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke and Bellamy venture back into the now deserted and decaying Mount Weather for a recon mission, and find a little bit of comfort along the way. Not in each other. At least, not only in each other. There may have been some music and fancy clothes involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wildest Dreams

Gun in hand, Clarke trudged through the halls of Mount Weather. The once pristine walls now crumbled at her feet, and pools of blood began to drip onto the rubble. She toed a chunk of concrete to the side.

“All clear,” she called out, turning her head to watch as Bellamy kicked the door to the infirmary shut with his heel. Shards of glass from the shattered window fell to the floor behind him.

“All we’ve got left to search is the residency level,” he responded, his dark eyes catching her gaze and pinning her to dirty, broken floor. No matter what she has felt about Bellamy during their time on Earth—whether it be hate, or respect, or something else—his eyes always managed to do that to her, to hold her in place until she could almost feel the world spinning under her feet.

Clarke didn’t think he’d ever look at her again after what she’d done. Hundreds of people—hundreds of strong, wonderful people—burned to a crisp, and she had known. She had _known_ , and she’d done nothing.

She thought Bellamy would hate her. He didn’t. He understood.

After all, he’d been responsible for hundreds of deaths too, hadn’t he?

This new relationship they had, this new understanding for each other, Clarke wasn’t really sure how it happened. After allowing the missile to destroy TonDC, Clarke had crossed a line, one that she could not walk back over.

Turns out, Bellamy had been on the other side the entire time.

So Clarke just nodded her head, watching him as he pressed the elevator button. They both stepped through the metal doors, shoulder to shoulder. Neither spoke.

 If there was anything Clarke could count on, it was the silent method of communication their partnership had built.

 As the hollow ding of the elevator rang through the air, Clarke pushed her way into the hallway and through the first door on the right. She bent her head low and pointed her rifle at the rows of bunk beds and overturned chairs until she was sure that anyone who had lived in this room was long gone. Bellamy marched in behind her, and Clarke found herself staring at the giant wooden cabinet at the back of the room. It was massive, taking up the whole wall, and the wood was stained a deep mahogany. President Wallace has showed her something similar, although much smaller than this monstrosity, when she had first escaped quarantine lifetimes ago. She jogged over and pulled the heavy doors aside.

 The armoire was laden with clothes.

 Clothing on the Ark had always been scarce, with each citizen receiving five, maybe six sets of clothes in his lifetime. What clothes they did have were thin and threadbare and ridden with holes, but at least they were livable.

 Even then, they were nothing like what was hanging before her eyes.

 Not just clothes, _fancy_ clothes. Dresses in pink and yellow and light blue. Skirts with frills and lace, suit jackets with satin pockets, ties in every color she could think of. Each article was pressed to perfection, and the faded colors reminded Clarke of those oldies movies the Ark would play once a month during rec hours.

 “Wow,” Bellamy breathed out beside her. Clarke nodded in agreement. They were gorgeous.

 Without thinking, she reached out and pulled a navy dress off the hanger, pressing the soft fabric into her hands. She held the dress up to her face and inhaled the dusty smell of dried flowers and mothballs.

 “I’ve always wanted to wear something like this,” she confessed.

 “I never pegged you for the dress-wearing type.” Clarke didn’t have to look up to know that Bellamy was teasing her, but she did anyway. His eyebrows were so far up his forehead that they almost disappeared under his dark curls, and his freckles nearly glowed under the dim yellow lighting. For a moment he looked happy, but Clarke knew better. Battle scars still lined his face, and his shoulders still sagged with a heavy burden. More than anything, Bellamy looked tired. Clarke could only imagine what she looked like.

 “Well, I never really got the chance to be one, did I?” Almost against her will, her eyes drifted down to the high-necked collar. They were both silent for a minute as Clarke spread her hands down the cool fabric and Bellamy inspected the rest of the clothes in the cabinet.

 “We should take these back to camp. They might come in handy.” Clarke hummed in agreement, but her eyes still followed the twist of the material in her palms.

 “Try it on.” Clarke snapped her eyes up to Bellamy’s, startled by his suggestion.

 “What?”

 “Come on, it’s not like anyone’s going to miss it.” He took a few steps towards her, his head tilted down with the mischievous lift of an eyebrow. “No one has to know.”

 She stared at him for a few moments, mulling the idea over in her head.

“Hurry up and decide already.”

 “Alright! Fine.” Clarke set the dress down on a nearby bed and pulled off her jacket. She paused, frowning at Bellamy as he continued to stare at her.

 “Turn around.” Bellamy smirked, that arrogant, suggestive, and slightly naïve one that had been so commonplace on his face before—well—everything. Nevertheless, he turned around to face the opposite wall.

Pulling her shirt off, Clarke unbuttoned her jeans and kicked her shoes to the side, a smile already starting to creep up her cheeks. She forced the corners of her lips down and squinted her eyes in an attempt to stay impassive. No one, not even Bellamy, was going to see her get this excited over something as trivial as a dress.

 Clarke heard some shuffling from behind her but ignored it as she pulled the dress on, buttoning up the collar at the base of her throat and smoothing out the skirt. It fell to her knees, and the feeling of fabric brushing against her legs as she twisted her hips back and forth sent shivers up her spine. The soft material—whatever it was, it was definitely something they didn’t have on the Ark—glided across the line of her shoulders before stopping right before the junction of her arm and the rest of her body. For the first time in quite a while, Clarke didn’t feel dirty. She didn’t feel gross, or messy. She felt _pretty_.

 It was a new experience.

She gazed at the floor length mirror beside the bunks for a moment, relishing in her rosy cheeks and pristine dress. As stupid as it may sound—with all that had happened and Earth being the hell that it was—this moment was one of her wildest dreams come true. She stared for a moment longer, and then spun around to face Bellamy.

 Turns out, she had been staring at herself for quite a while, because Bellamy had found the time to replace his ratty t-shirt with a crisp grey button up, complete with the type of front pocket Clarke had only seen in the movies. He had even donned a black suit jacket and striped tie, which he was now fumbling with. The jacket was a little too tight for his broad shoulders, and his shirt didn’t quite match his mud-stained jeans, but Clarke couldn’t deny it: he looked handsome as hell.

Admitting defeat, Bellamy threw the tie onto one of the beds and twisted the top two buttons of his shirt open.

Then he finally looked at Clarke.

He stared at the dress for a few seconds, and then he met her gaze.

 “You look good,” he said. It wasn’t much, but Clarke’s stomach twisted at how heavy the words sounded as they spilled from his mouth, as if he had tried to swallow and speak at the same time.

 Clarke’s heart lodged in her throat as Bellamy walked over to a turntable that was resting on a desk off to the right, and she watched with wide eyes as he placed the needle onto the vinyl track. The first few strains of music floated through he air as Bellamy spun around to face her. He held out his hand.

 “Care for a dance, Princess?” The familiarity of that horrid, annoying, wonderful nickname pulled a string of warmth from Clarke’s chest even as it sent a jolt of pain through her heart. She gave Bellamy’s questioning look a small smile and placed her hand in his. He pulled her impossibly close, and Clarke wrapped one arm around his shoulders, the other hand still pressed palm to palm in his. Bellamy tangled his free hand in her hair for a moment, and then slid it down to her waist. She laid her head on his chest, and he rested his chin against the crown of her forehead, and they stood there, swaying to the music.

They didn’t speak; they didn’t even look at each other.

 They didn’t need to.


End file.
